Or… Tripping over the Pedestal
Here in sunny beautiful vanilla Western PA, it’s easy to become attenuated to the connections one has to the motherland, notably to its people. Oh sure, I’ve got my Bengalis here and a few Indian friends left over from college but apas and bhaiyas, unkels and aunties don’t count, per se. Mostly, these days, I’m hanging with the two extremes of skin pigmentation. And that suits a Maher just fine.
But a few days ago, as I was walking to my bus stop downtown, I passed by a clutch of desi chicks coming out of the Fairmont hotel, all decked out in saris and shininess. And I thought to myself, oh now I remember why I’ve let myself get treated like sheeit by brown chicks in the past. Oi gevalt.